"Steve Perry - Battle Surgeons" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Steven)

turnkeys on a carved headpiece attached to the ends of the strings.
The cavalcade of war-torn bodies had finally stopped coming nearly five hours after the last lifters had
ar-rived. During the final hour another lightning storm had passed throughтАФa bad one, with bolts stabbing
down quite close to the camp. The entire area was electrostat-ically shielded, of course, but it was hard to
remember that when the thunder was loud enough to shake the building, the sudden flares of white light
through the win-dows left purple afterimages in his eyes, and the pungent scent of ozone filled the air,
expunging even the stench of battle-charred flesh.
But the storm had passed as quickly as it came, and by unspoken agreement everyone had wound up in
the cantina. Jos had come in a few minutes late, and had been surprised at the relative silence within, until
he saw Zan.
The anticipation in the air was almost as piquant as the ozone smell had been. People sipped drinks or
inhaled vapors or chewed spicetack, and watched Zan adjust the quetarra. No one was even so much as
glancing at the silent quadro box that usually provided canned music. The globe lights had been toned down
to a soft, effulgent level. Various harmonic sounds rang out as Zan turned the keys, modifying the various
tensions until the atonal notes came to blend together just right. At last, satisfied, he sat up a bit straighter on
the stool, settled the instru-ment on his left leg, and nodded at the audience.
"I'm going to try two short works. The first is Borra Chambo's prelude to his masterwork, Dissolution by
Self-Intention. The second is the fugue from Tikkal Remb Man's Insensate."
Zan began plucking the strings, and the music that came from that rapport between fingers and fibers
filled the cantina with a haunting melody and a counterpoint bass line that, despite Jos's gripes about how
much he hated classical works, immediately swept the human into its embrace.
Zan was a master musician, there was no question of that. He should have been on a concert stage on
some quiet, civilized world, where sentient beings appreci-ated such artistry, his talented hands occupied
creating art with Kloo horn and omni box instead of wielding vibroscalpels and flexclamps.
War, Jos thought. What is it good for? Certainly not for the arts. He wondered how many other talents
like Zan were being squandered in battles across the galaxy. Then he forced such depressing thoughts from
his head and just listened to the music. There was little enough beauty on this world, he reminded
himselfтАФmight as well enjoy it while it lasted.
Around him, others stood or sat quietly, caught in the musical web Zan was weaving. Nobody spoke.
No-body rattled dishware or clinked glasses. It was silent, save for the distant rumble of thunder and the
sounds of Zan's quetarra.
Jos glanced around and saw Klo Merit. The Equani was easy to spot; he towered nearly a head taller
than any other biped in the crowd. The pale gray fur and whiskers helped, too. Jos was glad to see the
Rimsoo's minder there. The EquaniтАФwhat few were left, after a solar flare had scorched their
homeworldтАФwere in-
tensely empathetic beings, capable of understanding and psychoanalyzing nearly every other known
intelli-gent species. Jos knew that Merit, in many ways, car-ried the emotional weight of the entire camp on
his sleek, broad shoulders. Now, however, he seemed caught up in the spell Zan was weaving, just like
every-one else. Good, Jos thought. He remembered a quote from Bahm Gilyad, who had formalized the
rules and responsibilities of his profession five thousand years be-fore, during the Stark Hyperspace
Conflict: "The sick and the injured will always have a healer to salve their wounds, but to whom does the
healer go?"
As Zan played on, Jos found it easier not to think about the war, or how tired he was, or how many
shards of metal he had removed or perforated organs he had replaced in the last few hours. The music
carried him to its depths, raised him to its heights, and re-freshed him like a week's worth of rest. He
realized that, in a great many ways, his friend was doing for the doctors and nurses of Rimsoo Seven what
the Jedi had done for the wounded clone troopsтАФhe was healing them.
Time seemed to stand still.
Eventually, Zan reached the end of the last composi-tion. The last clear note shivered away, and the
silence was nearly absolute. Then the cantina patrons began whistling and clapping, or pounding their empty